Mis But Matched
by LittleSapphireKnight
Summary: Erik is sent to work as an entertainer and architect for the Shah of Persia, determined to focus on his passions. However, the strongest passion of all arrives in the form of a girl named Christine. Very much EC. Central theme is, of course, Romance. Based loosely off of Kay's novel. Rated M for violence, language, and suggestive content. Open for full description. R&R!
1. Prologue: The Flame

**Mis But Matched**

**Prologue: The Flame: Erik works as an entertainer in Russia, wildly wishing for love. He is unnaware that everything will soon change at the arrival of a Persian man in a turban.**

**Story Summary: Erik is sent to work as an entertainer and architect for the Shah of Persia, determined to focus on his passions. However, the strongest passion of all arrives in the form of a girl named Christine.**

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**Author's Note!**

**This is a VERY long story, and it involves nearly every kind of theme under the sun. Furthermore, this prologue will most likely be the shortest of all of the chapters. **

**I will be updating as frequently as I can. I have honestly been formulating this story for years, so it is going to be very exciting for me to write.**

**Also, this is most DEFINITELY an Erik and Christine love story. Do NOT get confused by the Vera character: she is not a recurring character, and this is the last time you will see her. Christine will be coming in within the next couple of chapters.**

**Stick around for the rest: You will not regret it.**

**Enjoy the story!**

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Erik could still hear the murmurs of wonder and horror as he exited the dingy wooden stage, the heavy smell of vodka still in the air, produced by the many mouths of his "patrons". The large theatre was nearly emptied as he walked quickly down the stairs and entered into the relatively small backstage area. The theatre - though, he supposed, it was really not so much a theatre as a falling-apart stage with grimy walls, a roof, and a few occupied rooms backstage; there weren't even seats for the audience! - was in possibly one of the seediest little towns in all of the whole country of Russia. And he, Erik, was employed as a performer there.

Jugglers, dancers, acrobats - these were who he shared the theatre's backstage with. These were his co - workers, so to speak, all working and living under their employer, the infamous Mr. Stropnik. Each of them were given a chamber, a joint bedroom and dressing room. Erik, being the "star" of the show, the grand finale, the great ending surprise, was given the largest chamber.

It was the only one that directly connected to the stage from the back, making it isolated from all of the ten other chambers.

Erik entered into the central backstage lounge, where his co-workers, one girl and nine men, sat talking and laughing. Mr. Stropnik sat amongst them, right next to the girl, the dancer named Vera. Stropnik had just told them a very amusing crude joke about two whores and a prince when Erik appeared amongst them. The laughing ceased almost immediately upon his arrival.

This reaction was expected of course. To a hideous mutated excuse of a person like Erik, one could not expect anything too friendly from one's peers.

Stropnik was still smiling widely despite his unwelcome entrance, pleased at the positive response that his joke had created. His eyes scanned Erik's tall and thin frame from his black shoes, trousers, and vest, his white shirt, his dark gloves, and finally landing on his white masked face, contrasted completely with his midnight hair.

Stropnik then looked directly into Erik's eyes, which were, along with his mouth and hair, the only things not covered with clothing or the porcelain white mask. The eyes of the masked man were mismatched, the right eye blue and the left brown, and his lips were narrow on one end and swollen at the other. There was no doubt, even under the protection of the mask, that this man was malformed.

"Erik, strange lad!" the manager exclaimed, a twinkle in his eyes. "Why don't you give us a little show? We had a full house today, after all. We could use a little entertainment. Go on! What am I paying you for?"

The other entertainers stirred uncomfortably where they sat. One of the acrobats coughed into his fist and looked away, and a couple of jugglers shared a nervous glance. It was quite apparent that they had all seen Erik's entertainment act. It was also quite apparent that none of them fancied hearing him sing a song when it involved him removing his mask afterward.

"Sir, with all due respect," Erik started, and his voice was like black silk, "you pay me to entertain the willing masses, not my co-workers who must sit and pretend to be entertained by me...and you for that matter."

There was a stunned silence. No one dared ever speak to Stropnik in this manner. Except Erik, evidentally. And even the occasions on which he did were far and in between.

Stropnik still smiled as his eyebrows raised. He spoke calmly but coolly. "You better be God damned glad that you are my best asset, you skeletal freak, or it would be out on the street with you. Besides, you are quite wrong; I bring very much pleasure to my performers. Isn't that right, my dear?" This remark was not for Erik, but for Vera. The middle aged manager had shifted his postition so that he was able to easily reach his arm around the back of the girl and pinch the small of her back. She blushed profusely.

She was fifteen.

Erik could feel his face go hot beneath the mask. His pulse began to quicken and he felt his blood boil, and before he could exclaim in rage, he turned swiftly on his heels and stalked away, toward the sanctity of his chamber. He could feel the eyes of his "companions" boring into his back as he went, although something told him that Vera was otherwise too engaged to focus on his exit from the group.

Once inside, he closed the door and locked it, making sure to then place the key in the rightmost upper drawer in his dresser. It wouldn't do to lose place of the key and be locked inside, despite however much the others hoped he would just stay in this room, stay in this room and rot away, stay in this room and never be seen nor heard from again.

To be quite honest, the idea sometimes did not seem so terrible to him either.

He halfheartedly swatted the morbid thought away like a fly, knowing that it would return soon enough. He turned and stared blankly into the room, attempting to numb himself from the hot anger that pulsed through his veins. He stared at the bare, peeling white paint of the walls, at the shabby little bed in the corner, at the single candle that still burned from the few hours ago that he had lit it before the performance.

Erik focused on the candle. More precisely, he focused on the flame. For such a small thing, for such a _fragile_ thing, how brightly it burned! The power inside that solitary flame was incredible: able to bring warmth and light, but also pain and destruction. And made out of nothing but air! He wished Vera could be that way. He wished that she could somehow stand up for herself against Stropnik. That absolute beast! She was an innocent girl, naive against the evils of the world yet dependant upon a man who abused the fact that he practically owned her, just as he pratically owned the rest of them.

Did Erik love her? He had questioned it himself. No, however, he did not think he did. True, he was a bit infatuated with her. He thought she was young and quite pretty - and at his age of nineteen, they were not too far apart in age - but he had never actually spoken to her, and she had never actually said a word to him.

She tried to maintain an air of friendliness, even to Erik. Of course, the intimidation - and even fear, perhaps? - she obviously felt while around him caused her smile to falter and the brightness in her eyes to dim. She tried, though, and Erik had appreciated it, never daring to express the feeling in person.

That pig, though, that pig Stropnik was slowly but surely stripping any innocence Vera possessed and turning into his own personal pleasure slave. She was being corrupted day by day, and there was nothing that Erik could do about it. Even if she and he would never speak a word, he dreaded the thought of something so pure being muddied in the filthy rivers of pain and sin.

Erik sighed and removed his mask, happy that there was no mirror placed within his chamber. He removed his gloves, shoes, and vest, content to rest in his trousers and shirt. He pulled back the blanket on his bed and placed himself into the warmth of the bed. Erik then blew out the candle, and immediately felt a pang of regret at the murder of the strong and fragile force he had only just been admiring. He shook it off. Ridiculous, regretting the last breath of a flame. He must have been extremely tired. Erik did not sleep on a normal basis - once every three nights, perhaps. His body simply did not need it...one of the many freakish features he possessed, of course.

As he lay in the dark, one thought ran straight through his mind. He wished for love. He wished to love a girl so strongly that it hurt, and wished to be loved back just as fiercely. He wished for a romance - no, not a romance, a romance was short-lived and on the surface. He wished for an understanding, a connection so strong to someone that it was like that candle's flame. He wanted something capable of filling his days with light but able to burn him just as easily. He wanted something so strong it was able to turn mere air hot and glowing. He wanted to watch the love burn and never let it die; and if it did, he wanted to be able to bring it back to life just as easily.

Vera was pretty. Just pretty.

And even if she was more to him than just a sweet face, even if he had even the smallest place in her heart, she could never survive the wild passion inside of Erik. Not even for an instant. She was far too weak, far too fragile. Far too much like a dying flame.

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Months later, Erik looked back on the short and pitiful life Vera had endured.

He knew her story, of course. Everyone did. How she had been orphaned at five, lived in a shabby children's home until the age of fourteen, and then came to dance for Stropnik, giving him more than she had bargained for.

And Stropnik, in return, and had given her something back. Something that she never wanted. Something she had to get rid of to keep her career as dancer, but something that she loved and prayed she could keep forever.

Knowing she could not hide her growing secret for a full nine months, she leapt off a bridge one night, letting the icy water swallow both her and her unborn child.

However, it became quite clear that the end of two innocent lives was the start of two fresh ones. Erik did not know it, but one turbon-clad dark-skinned patron who came to enjoy Erik's performance the night after Vera's tragic suicide would never allow Erik's life to be the same.

Vera's life has ended.

But the flame has only just been lit.

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**Thank you for reading!**

**See you next chapter!**


	2. Chapter 1: Willing and Will

**Mis But Matched**

**Chapter 1: Willing and Will: A Persian man named Nadir Kahn comes to Russia invite Erik to work for the Shah of Persia, but it is not as easy as it would seem.**

**Story Summary: Erik is sent to work as an entertainer and architect for the Shah of Persia, determined to focus on his passions. However, the strongest passion of all arrives in the form of a girl named Christine.**

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**Author's Note!**

**OH MY GOODNESS! I am sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo sorry for my absence! I have simply had so many other obligations and life changes that this has not been my top priority. Other than that, I really have no excuse for the amount of time that this took. All I can say is that I am so sorry, and that I will be working on this much more often than before. Don't give up on me ;) I love all of you! Happy reading!**

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Nadir Kahn was very far from home.

Not only was he too far to be comfortable, he was not enjoying a single moment of his journey to Russia. Persia was where he was safe; it was where he was home. Russia was, as of now, a land of uncertainty and unpleasantness.

He had come here for one reason and one reason only: to collect the man named Erik. According to his extremely vague instructions, he would be able to identify him by his enchanting voice and monstrous face. The description, though obscure, was perhaps not entirely useless. After all, how many Russian citizens matched that description?

True, their faces were all hideous, but none of them had very beautiful voices.

So far he had been met with nothing but filth and an entire heap load of disappointment. He had been told to see the small theatre in a small Russian town…but the man who told him this knew neither the theatre nor the town's name.

That man, thought Nadir, is an imbecile. He internally disregarded the fact that this man was the Shah of Persia and was responsible for whether Nadir lived or died.

It was with great relief that he finally found the dingy little theatre in an even dingier little town. He had been about ready to give up toward the end of the performance held there, for he had seen no sign of this mysterious Erik, when the strange masked man entered the stage. When the man opened his mouth to sing, Nadir soon forgot every single one of his burdens and worries. He closed his eyes. He found himself lost in a world entirely his own, if only for a few minutes. He wished for the man to never stop, and to be able to escape reality and remain there, in that blind bliss, for the remainder of his life.

No happiness, of course, can live forever. Nadir had learned that long ago.

The music stopped, yet still he kept his eyes shut. It wasn't until he heard the gasps and screams all around him that he allowed himself to look. What he found caused his blood to freeze over. There, on the stage, stood a human corpse where the masked angel had once been. Lips uneven, eyes mismatched, skin discolored, nose like that of a skull's, and a frame so thin it was a wonder that this…thing…was even alive.

It was moments later that Nadir realized that this had to be the man he was sent here to find.

As soon as this strange and twisted show was over, Nadir made his way through the drunken crowd toward the stage, where the man still stood. He was adjusting his white mask as Nadir climbed the side steps and approached him.

"Sir?" started Nadir. He realized he accidentally spoke in Persian, and corrected himself just as fast.

The man, who had just finished tying his mask at the back of his head, shot his mismatched gaze toward him. He slowly positioned his arms so that they were crossed over his chest, while continuing to stare intently on the Persian man before him.

"Yes?" the masked man said, also in Persian, much to Nadir's surprise, and his voice was like dark honey. So this man spoke his own native tongue. "The show is over. What do you want? I do not give encores."

"No, no," Nadir assured him swiftly, as though desperately pleading innocent in a court case, "I am not here for an encore. Not at all."

The man merely stared at him for a few seconds. "Well, what is it then?"

Nadir held out his hand tentatively, keeping in the back of his mind the idea of thrusting a hand into a pile of scorpions, and said, "My name is Nadir Khan, I am the daroga to His Most Excellence and Worthiness, Shah of Persia," – the man scoffed – "and I am standing here to inquire as to whether or not you are the most famed and esteemed Erik?"

The man, slightly surprised, took the hand and shook it gently, saying, "I am, and although apparently famed I would have to question that I am most esteemed. Now I must ask of you; what on this earth does a Shah of Persia want of me?"

"Not a Shah of Persia, the Shah of Persia," Nadir said hastily, taking his hand away, then continued under the annoyance of Erik's gaze, "and His Absolute Humbleness and Goodness had been told of the greatness of your voice. He wishes to have you join his court for one year so as to entertain him, his most beautiful wife, and the sweet young child that is his unborn baby."

Erik crossed his arms. "And what leads your master to think that I am willing to simply leave this place? That I will drop everything and follow you blindly?"

"The pay is quite handsome," the Persian man said hastily. "You are to be given a luxurious room within his palace, something that I am sure three-quarters of the world dream of, as well as dine with the royal family and the other people he has invited. You are to be treated like an honored guest, for you will be just that."

Erik's eyes contemplated this concept for a few moments, then he spoke again. "How long is the stay at his palace?"

"One year," he informed him. "No more, and no less."

Erik, with his arms still crossed, drummed his left fingers on his right bicep. He remained this way for what seemed like half a minute, seeming to take in every detail of the Persian man's features, looking for some sign of...something. Finally, he said softly, "And this is no trick?"

"No trick," Nadir assured him, reached into the large sack he carried with him, rummaged around through layers of clothing and other travel necessities, and finally pulled out a large folded sheet of parchment that was gently placed in the side inside pocket of the sack. He held the parchment out for Erik to take. "The word of the Shah is the purest in all seven seas."

Erik unfolded the parchment and read intensely. The parchment was, of course, a signed letter of request to Erik for him to do exactly what Nadir had said – entertain and live with him as a guest for exactly one year. Erik seemed to study it as if it was something to be deciphered, and Nadir wondered for a moment if Erik could speak Persian fluently but not read it. He opened his mouth to ask exactly this, but then Erik abruptly folded the parchment back up and handed it back to Nadir, his gaze more intense than ever.

As the Persian reached out to take the parchment from him, and closed his fingers on the letter, Erik's own gloved hand grasped the other's and pulled him in dangerously close, their faces nearly touching. The image of scorpions once again flooded Nadir's mind.

"Sir," Erik said quietly. His eyes were cold and his voice had turned from dark honey to beautiful acid, and it sent frightened shivers down Nadir's spine. His words were slow, deliberate, and very sharp. "I swear to you, if this is some sick and twisted trick to cause me harm, or some ruse to trap me in a situation that most would find unpleasant, you will regret it quite sorely. I can fight back, and fight cunningly, and I am almost certain that you will regret your poor choices if I find that you are lying. You have absolutely no idea what I am capable of. Is this understood?"

Nadir wished to look away from his eyes, but the intensity there held him frozen. He could feel a cold acid spreading through his stomach, and a numbing of his mind under the newfound fear of this man before him. It was true – he had absolutely no idea what this man was capable of. Despite this, he attempted to fake some courage.

"I understand completely, sir, and I can assure you, in the name of Allah, that this is not a trick. The Shah wishes you to be his guest, and I am here to request that you come. That letter bears his signature, and his signature is his word. You will come to no harm if you are to come with me. You will gain great happiness and wealth from this journey, I assure you."

Erik continued to stare at the Persian man, and was visibly about to open his mouth once more when an interruption was heard from behind the stage.

"I can hear voices out there; what in hell is going on? Who are you with, Corpse?"

Erik's mismatched eyes closed and a Nadir heard a sigh escape from his nose. "It is nothing, Stropnik, simply a patron asking me about my voice." He opened his eyes once again and laid them on the Persian piercingly. "Most likely trying to exploit the skills I possess."

A short and course laugh was heard from the wings, and then the large ugly body of a Russian man appeared onstage. He held a smirk on his rough and clearly drunken face.

"Skills?" he scoffed at Erik from behind him. Erik did not turn around. "Please, you have no skills."

Erik remained staring at Nadir, but his words were directed at Stropnik. "I have no skills?"

"Of course not! That voice of yours? No skill." He chuckled. "Merely a demonic trick to make up for the rest of you. No skill needed – skills would make you worth something, wouldn't it?" Another chuckle.

Erik looked away from Nadir without responding, but his hands visibly clenched.

A moment of silence ensued before Stropnik turned to look at Nadir. He seemed to be sizing him up and down with an air of interest before finally speaking.

"You! Are you Indian?"

Indian? Already Nadir disliked this man.

"No, sir," he answered curtly in Russian.

"Spanish?"

"Persian," Nadir corrected him, wondering what could have caused him to assume he was anything but the sort. "I am here from the Shah of Persia to collect Erik to come to the royal court."

"Collect?" Erik looked back at Nadir, once again with a piercing gaze.

"Invite," he corrected himself, avoiding Erik's eyes. He focused on the face of Stropnik, which was only slightly more comfortable.

"Really." Stropnik's eyes were raised.

"Yes, really," Nadir said, impatience creeping into his voice. "And if you very much do not mind, I am requesting to be left alone with Erik so that I may receive his answer as quickly as possible."

"Well, in that case, you are waiting on the wrong man's answer."

The Persian man stared blankly at Stropnik. "And who's answer would I need, sir? Yours?"

"Precisely." Stropnik's lips curled, as if the thought of deciding Erik's fate was immensely pleasurable to him. A moment passed while Erik stood seething, and the three men simply stared at one another. Finally, the Russian beckoned to the back of the theatre. "Come, let us have a few drinks and we shall discuss this like," he stared pointedly at Erik, "civilized human beings." He began to walk behind the stage, an immense grin upon his face.

Nadir hesitated for a few moments, glanced at Erik's now-angry gaze, and found no choice but to follow the other man to the back of the theatre.

* * *

"Sir, I already told you, I do not drink! Now, please, can we discuss the matter in hand?"

The frustration must have been made clear in Nadir's voice, for Stropnik stared intently at him for a few moment, bottle of vodka in hand. He shrugged a little, slightly more drunk than he had been before, and attempted to chuckle away the seriousness of the situation as he put down the bottle.

The two men were sitting at a wooden table, in a small room within the theatre that must have been Stopnik's office. The bottle of vodka sat stinking between them, with a folded sheet of crinkled and stained paper beside it. The room was dimly lit by a candle placed upon a set of drawers opposite the table, and Erik leaned against the wall next to it, his bitter look heightened upon his mask by the shadows of the candle.

For the past half hour Stropnik had attempted to postpone the issue that was so heavy in Nadir's brain with small talk and repeated offers of the alcohol that sat upon the table. It was, therefore, much to the relief of the Persian that Stropnik finally sat back in his chair, hands folded and face utterly relaxed, and said, "So, The King of Siam wishes to collect my star attraction, eh?"

"The Shah of Persia!" Nadir corrected him, all patience gone from his voice. Stropnik waved his hand nonchalantly.

"Fine," the Russian said, "the Shah of Persia. He wants Erik, does he?"

"He does. I have a signed letter, if you would care to look at it." He placed the rolled up parchment on top of the folded one that was already on the table, and pushed it in the man's direction. Stropnik cleared his throat, unrolled the parchment. He had barely glanced at it for five seconds before he raised his eyebrows at Nadir and dropped the parchment to the floor.

"Sir!" Nadir plunged for the parchment and brought it back to the table. He now stood, staring incredulously at Stropnik. "This bears the signature of His Majestic Excellency! It is not me that is requesting Erik, but the Supreme Ruler of –"

"That's all very well, Mr. Kahn," Stropnik said with a hideous smile upon his lips, "but Erik is not going anywhere."

Nadir's heart dropped. He had come all the way to Russia to find and bring back the man in question, only to be told by someone else that his goal was not to be reached.

He blinked and stared at the pleased face of Stropnik. "And who are you exactly to decide where Erik does and does not go?"

"I," he answered, getting to his feet to join Nadir in the standing position, "am his employer. He," he grasped the crinkled folded paper on the table and handed it roughly to Nadir, "is under a binding contract."

Nadir numbly opened the paper and read, and found that it did indeed confirm Erik's obligation to Stropnik. He could not quit.

Silently, he handed the contract to Stropnik, who then gleefully threw it in Erik's direction. He then looked at his unfortunate employee and smirked once more. "Pick it up."

The hatred was clear even behind the mask as he slowly bent over to pick up the hated old sheet of paper.

"Now, is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Kahn?"

"No," Nadir said softly, and he could see the disappointment and anger he was bringing the Shah of Persia already looming in upon him like a dark dust storm. The thought of the Shah's dissatisfaction frightened him, and he was suddenly desperate to retrieve this man. He had worked far too hard on the royal court for his trustworthiness to be tampered with over a simple technicality.

"Well, then if that is all, my Persian friend," Stropnik continued, "allow me to show you the way out –"

"Please," Nadir found himself saying. So he had been reduced to begging. A look of surprise appeared upon the other's face. "Please, the Shah would be very grateful. This is something that he very much wants. He had me travel all the way from Persia only to retrieve your employee."

Stropnik stared, and Nadir sensed a sickening sensation of calculation behind his eyes.

"He wants this, does he?" the Russian asked. He slowly began to sit down once again. "How much does he want this exactly?"

"Very….well very much, I can assure you."

"Does he?...And this Shah is quite rich, I imagine."

Nadir nodded, not liking where the conversation was headed. "Of course, sir."

Stropnik leaned toward him, a sickening smile on his face. "If I were to, hypothetically, let my best asset go, how much would His Richness be willing to fork over?"

"You will, of course, be paid handsomely," he lied. "Even more than Erik will be paid. He is, after all, under your control."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You are lying." Stropnik stood once again, his face instantly hard and angry, and Nadir's heart dropped even further. "Listen here, you little Persian lying son of a bitch," – Nadir jolted with shock – "Erik is mine. He has earned me more money than I have ever had in my life. I will not let him leave for a life of luxury when he is perfectly safe under my control here, in this theatre. He will not be treated as royalty while I am left suffering in this shitty section of hellish Russia. Do you understand that?"

"I…"

"He belongs to me. He is under my control, by contract! He –"

"Fuck your contract."

It was not Nadir who spoke, but the black silky voice of Erik. The two other men looked up in surprise. Erik had spoken so softly, yet with so much loathing and anger, that they could do nothing but stare.

"This contract expired two months ago," he said, and the soft fierceness was so terrifying that Stropnik visibly gulped, but otherwise maintained his cool, "you painted over the date of expiration and made it to look like I am yours for another two years." He ripped the useless paper in half and dropped it, staring in hatred at Stropnik. "This contract is void."

Nadir held his breath as Erik then approached him, and he could see a strong anger being held hostage beneath fiery eyes. "I am the Shah's now," the masked man said coolly.

Stropnik spoke up against this one-man rebellion. "Listen here, you…"

"Fuck you!" Erik roared, rounding on him. Nadir envisioned scorpions engulfing and attacking Stropnik, as the former employer widened his eyes and took a small step backwards. Erik continued, but did not make any advances toward him. "Fuck you, you piece of fucking shit! How dare you? How dare you treat me like I am nothing while you yourself are possibly the worst human being I have ever met! Destroying happiness and innocence everywhere! Tearing that poor Vera's life apart and then acting like it was her own fault that she died!"

"That little whore killed herself…"

"Because of you!" Erik took a step forward menacingly. "You caused her such unhappiness, just as you do me, and just as you do everyone else who makes the sorry mistake of working for you!"

"Without me, you would be on the streets." Even as he said it, Stropnik seemed to hesitate in the slightest bit of fear. "No one would ever hire you but me, you would be starving."

Erik paused to stare at him with a look of absolute hatred, his entire form tense. It was like watching a panther ready to pounce. However, rather than attack, he merely let his voice maintain that soft, black texture once more. "It is people like you that I wish were dead – people who have power over others and choose to destroy them rather than make them happy and comfortable." He took one more step forward. "I hope you live the life you force upon others. I hope you suffer."

Stropnik merely stared at him, no sound escaping his lips. Erik stared back for a few seconds, then turned away in utter disgust. He then rounded on Nadir, who jumped slightly.

"Anywhere you take me will be better than this hell-hole," Erik said, the residue of his anger clinging to his voice. "When do we leave?"

Nadir was more alert than ever. "You are willing to go," he said. It was more a tentative statement than a question.

"I am willing, sir, and I will." A different kind of fire was blazing in his eyes. Determination, perhaps? "Take me to Persia, Mr. Nadir Kahn."

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**Thank you for reading this next installment! **

**Feedback? I am always looking for any kind of constructive criticism or comments!**

**See you next time!**


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